Author's Note: Chapter three delves deeper into Loki's fragmented memories. I wanted to depict profound imagery of Asgard and his connection to it is purposeful—Loki's past is a dreamlike existence that he can't fully recall, yet the pull of its significance remains undeniable. As the story progresses, these visions of his childhood begin to bleed into his present reality, creating a tension between his budding relationship with the Dahls and the coldness of the home he's left behind in Asgard.
The theme of "belonging" is central here—Loki's recognition of himself within the pages of the book Linnea shares with him, as well as the emotional weight of finally remembering his own name; this is a pivotal moment. It marks the beginning of his journey toward understanding who he truly is, not just in the eyes of others, but within his own shattered sense of self.
I hope you find the layered narrative and character exploration meaningful, especially as Loki's memories begin to piece together in the most unexpected ways.
The song "Heming og Gyygra" by Käte Ungdomsdagar (which is part of the playlist I provided), speaks of a figure walking through shadows, struggling with a sense of brokenness and the relentless desire to prove their worth. In addition to the playlist I gave you all, I might also continue providing theme songs for each chapter (it's the synesthetic musician and artist in me)…sooo I found that the song "The Theory of Everything - Ending Scene Music: Arrival of the Birds" by the islandic composer, Jóhann Jóhannsson perfectly captures the emotional depth and climax of Loki regaining his memory (especially his name) as well as Thor's confrontation with his father.
Also, let's talk about names again, shall we?
Reynard is the name of Linnea's fox. Though I do not believe the name has Norse origins, it does derive from the Old High German personal name Reginhart. Reynard which means "strong in counsel" The association with strength and wisdom is particularly fitting for Linnea's fox, who, like the cunning trickster (Reynard) in medieval European tales, often operates through cleverness and calculated moves (hint hint…like our fallen prince). Reynard the fox became prominent in these tales as a symbol of wit and strategy, traits that mirror Loki's own identity. (Duh)
On the other hand, Tåka, the name of Loki's childhood fox, means "fog" in Scandinavian languages. This name speaks directly to Loki's shrouded identity, just as the fog obscures what lies beneath. Tåka symbolizes confusion and the nebulous boundaries between Loki's true self and the sense of alienation he has always felt.
Linnea's nickname for Loki, Skyggeengel, combines two powerful elements: "Skygge," meaning "shadow," and "engel," meaning "angel." To Linnea this name reflects Loki's duality. Skyggeengel speaks to the way Loki exists in the margins, neither fully embraced nor fully rejected by the world. He is both an outcast and a savior in his own right.
Lastly, the references to Æsir og Vanir: Ævintýri og Sagn and "Prínsar Ásgeir: Ríki og Tignir" are key to understanding the larger mythological framework surrounding Loki. The first, Æsir og Vanir: Ævintýri og Sagn (The Aesir and Vanir: Adventures and Legends), hints at the ancient stories at play in the cosmos of Norse mythology. "Prínsar Ásgeir: Ríki og Tignir" (Prince Ásgeir: Realm and Dignity) suggests a royal title, which Loki seeks desperately to prove himself worthy of once more — yet in the shadows of his strained relationship with his father, these ideals feel out of reach.
All of these elements form a delicate web that underscores the emotional depth of Loki's character.
Enjoy chapter three, kæru lesendur!
Sincerely, LilacRenaissanceWoman
Uncrowned and Forsaken
By: LilacRenaissanceWoman
Chapter Three
*Asgard*
The palace stood in solemn silence behind him, its gleaming halls emptied of the laughter that once danced through them.
Thor sat in the heart of his mother's garden; his broad frame curled inward as though trying to contain the shattering ache inside him. Livid tears slipped down his cheeks unconstrained, as his fingers dug into the ground, fists clenching and unclenching against the soil.
His emotions moved like a tidal wave that surged and swelled, threatening to pull him under.
A soft rustle of fabric disturbed his thoughts, the serenest of footsteps against the cobblestone path. He did not look up nor move, but he felt her presence before she spoke.
"Thor…my child…"
Frigga's voice was a whisper of mourning while simultaneously holding an air of imperial security in it. Thor bowed his head in remorse at her words, feeling as though he did not deserve it, not when he had failed….and his brother was…
He let out a choked breath and turned, his body trembling as he faced her. "Why?" His voice broke with devastation.
Frigga's eyes held oceans of pain as she met Thor's.
He lunged forward at this, desperation breaching through as his hands grasped at the fine silk of her robes, clinging to her as if she were the only tether he had left to this world. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, his breath warm and shuddering against the cool fabric. "Tell me, Mother—why did he let go? He was right there! I could have saved him! I should have saved him!"
Frigga cradled her eldest close, her fingers threading through his golden hair. He was not a boy anymore but, in this moment, he felt like a defenseless, grieving brother lost in an agony too vast to bear alone.
She guided them down, sinking beside him onto the stone bench nestled beside a bush of winter roses—ethereal, ice-pale petals unfurling like fragile lace, their edges kissed with silver where the moonlight touched them. The flowers stood resilient beneath the star-scattered sky, their beauty undiminished by the bitter air.
With a delicate touch, Frigga took one of Thor's hands in hers, tracing the roughness of his knuckles, the callouses of a warrior's hands now shaking with grief. With her other hand, she brushed away a single tear from his cheek, her fingers cool and soothing against his burning skin.
A silence spread between them loaded with an air of unspoken truths.
Then, at last, she spoke.
"My child… it is time you knew the truth about Loki."
The fallen, ravenous prince still lay asleep on the couch of the Dahl family's family room, his body restless with every shallow breath. His fingers twitched and his brows furrowed as flashes of a dream—or was it a memory?—twisted through the darkness of his mind.
The darkness was alive.
Snarling. Howling. The crack of brittle branches beneath frenzied paws.
Loki ran.
His breath came in sharp bursts, his chest burning as he tore through the dense undergrowth. Shadows warped around him, curling like phantoms spilled into water. The beasts were behind him, too many to count, their panting breath hot against the back of his neck.
A raucous snarl rang through the night—closer this time. Too close.
A flicker of golden light ahead—someone was with him.
His hands shot forward, reaching, grasping at the figure that ran alongside him. His fingers met nothing but air. The silhouette was familiar, achingly so, yet faceless—nothing more than a shape blurred against the night.
Another growl. A lunge.
Loki barely twisted in time, the snap of powerful jaws missing his leg by inches. The beast was massive, its fur matted with filth and eyes burning with hunger. Another shape moved in the darkness, and then another—clawing, biting, then dragging him down into the black abyss.
He fell.
Arms flailing. Desperately reaching.
The faceless figure—an older boy clad in crimson, with gleaming flaxen hair, a streak of light against the shadows—lunged forward, hand outstretched. For a fleeting moment, their fingertips brushed—
…and then the wolves closed in.
Loki awoke with a sharp wheeze, his body jolting upright before the soreness in his limbs forced him still. The pain was a cruel reminder of his current disposition, anchoring him back to the present. His chest heaved, beads of sweat gathering at his temple as his eyes darted around the dimly lit room.
The furniture, though simple, was welcoming as the scent sweet vanilla that lingered in the air.
Then, a pair of dark brown eyes met his own.
At the bottom of the staircase stood Linnea, her small frame outlined in the soft glow of a lamp's light. The elementary school child clutched a stuffed animal to her chest: an old fox plush, its fur a faded russet with one ear slightly bent, as if it had been lovingly folded and refolded too many times. The stitching along its tail was uneven, likely from a hurried repair, and the black bead eyes reflected the dim light like two tiny stars.
Loki's gaze drifted lower, taking in her pajamas—pale blue and patterned with tiny white rabbits, the fabric slightly wrinkled from sleep. Her house slippers, soft and well-worn, were shaped like tiny bears, their round ears flopping slightly.
She clutched the fox tighter, "Were you having a nightmare?" she whispered.
Loki eyed her up and down before turning his head away. The remnants of the dream still clung to him, leaving his skin clammy and his thoughts unsettled.
"I have them too sometimes," Linnea continued.
At her words, Loki's green eyes flickered downward.
The little girl hesitated, then took another small step forward. "Why do you look so sad?" she asked, twisting the end of one of her pigtails between her fingers. "Did something bad happen to you?"
Loki's jaw tightened. More than you could ever imagine he thought.
"Go back to your chambers young one," he replied instead.
Linnea blinked while tilting her head, "Chambers?"
The word confused her, but she ignored it. Instead of retreating, she eventually made her way to his side, undeterred. Her small fingers smoothed over the fox plush absentmindedly as she watched him carefully, curiosity warring in her expression.
Loki closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose while pressing his lips into a thin line.
Linnea, still clutching her fox plush, studied him in silence. The shadows of the dwindling fire danced across her round face; her dark brown eyes filled with fortitude.
"You didn't answer me," she said, leaning closer so she was completely in his line of sight.
Loki did not move. "Children should not ask such questions." His voice said with edged weary.
"Why not?" Linnea asked.
Loki turned his head away, staring at the darkened window. The night outside was still but in his mind he could still hear the distant echoes of snarling beasts and snapping jaws.
"I think something bad did happen to you," she said, hugging the fox tighter, "and that's why you're so sad."
Loki clasped his jaw, but said nothing.
There was a long pause before Linnea, as if making up her mind about something, let out a soft sigh.
"Sometimes, when I have nightmares," she began, "I hold onto Reynard really tight and he makes me feel better."
Loki glanced at her now, "Reynard?"
She lifted the plush fox slightly, "That's his name. Reynard the Brave."
Loki arched a brow. The fox was hardly an imposing figure, and yet, Linnea cradled it as if it were a great protector, a knight of legend.
"Brave, is he?" Loki murmured, somewhat impressed.
Linnea nodded solemnly. "Mhm! He's fought lots of scary things before. Shadows. Monsters. Bad dreams." She hesitated, then stepped even closer to him, "Maybe he can fight yours too."
Before Loki could react, Linnea gently set Reynard down on his lap.
The fox's beady black eyes stared up at him, its threadbare fur warm from the girl's touch. Loki stared at it, a flicker of warmth fluttering inside his chest.
"You wish for me to keep him?" His voice held a thoughtful cadence. "You would part with your little….protector…?"
Linnea shrugged, "You look like you need him more than me."
A small figure moved restlessly beneath the heavy, emerald-green blankets. In the vast expanse of his chamber, young Prince Loki lay curled in on himself. Though his chambers were richly furnished, they felt hollow during the thunderstorm.
The Princeling lay clutching a worn, stuffed white winter fox to his chest, one he had his since infancy—a gift from Frigga, enchanted with the faintest trace of warmth. He squeezed it tighter, burying his little face into its familiar form.
"Tåka," he whispered, voice hushed in the darkness. The name was his own secret, one he had never shared with Thor, lest it become something to be mocked.
Normally, he didn't mind them. Normally, he would whisper spells beneath his breath and watch as the darkness twisted into playful shapes, obedient to his will. But tonight, the raging outside startled him, as outside it caused the wind to howl and thunder violently.
Loki considered going to Thor's room, but he knew the elder prince would mock him and ay that princes of Asgard do not fear the night. So, Loki turned onto his side, pressing his forehead to Tåka's soft ear.
If he was very, very still, the little fox almost felt like his mother's embrace. If he closed his eyes and held his breath, perhaps sleep would take him before the shadows did.
And so he held the fox tight, whispering another secret into its snowy fur, "Sleep now, Tåka. Keep the dark away."
Loki blinked. The sheer simplicity of her words caught him off guard. So you're not alone.
For a long moment, he didn't move. He simply stared at the tiny offering before him, at the worn stitches and the softened edges that spoke of years of love and comfort.
Then, hesitantly he reached out. His long, pale fingers ghosted over the fox's tattered fur before finally curling around it, lifting it slightly off his lap. A faint, almost wistful smile touched Loki's lips as he glanced down at the stuffed animal in his hands. "A noble sacrifice." He met her gaze. "Thank you, little one."
Linnea smiled, satisfied, two dimples flashing on her cheeks with pride, "You're welcome, now you have a friend!"
Loki scoffed, but there was no true bite behind it. "A rather scrappy-looking friend."
Linnea giggled then let out a small yawn, rubbing one sleepy eye with her fist. "I should go back to bed."
Loki nodded slightly. "A wise decision."
Linnea smiled again before turning, padding back toward the staircase in her rabbit-printed pajamas. But just before she disappeared, she hesitated, glancing back at him over her shoulder.
"Goodnight… uh…" She frowned slightly.
"You do not even know my name," Loki stated.
Linnea studied him for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. "Well… you don't seem to remember it."
His gaze flickered, but he said nothing.
After a pause, she gave a decisive nod. "Then I'll just call you something else for now."
Loki let out a scoff, more intrigued than he cared to admit. "And what, pray tell have you decided?"
She beamed while putting her hands on her little hips, "Skyggeengel."
Loki blinked, "Shadow angel?"
Linnea nodded, lifting her hands up around her mouth as if she was letting him in on a secret. "You're quiet and always watching like you don't want anyone to see you. But…" She said, considering him in that disarming way children often did, "You're also… sweet. I think you could be kind, too."
Loki stared at her as his throat tightened, unsure what to make of this small mortal and her absurd, tender perception of him.
Linnea stifled another yawn, "Goodnight, Skyggeengel."
And then she was gone, disappearing up the stairs, leaving Loki alone in the dim glow of the fire.
For a long time, he simply sat there, staring down at the fox in his hands. Absently, traced over the worn fabric of its ears.
Skyggeengel
A name given freely. A name meant just for him.
So with a sigh, he alas leaned back once again into the couch, and held onto the child's toy closely.
After many suns had set and rose again, Loki awoke one morning to the unmistakable scent of a Midgardian breakfast; curling through the air like an invisible hand coaxing him from sleep. His mouth watered before his eyes had even opened.
The aroma of freshly pan-fried bacon, crisp at the edges and glistening with its own rendered fat, mingled with the scent of fluffy scrambled eggs folded with herbs. There was also the subtle tang of pickled herring, the comforting warmth of buttered rye bread, and the faint sweetness of lingonberry jam spread over golden-brown pancakes. But above all, he could smell the deep, earthy scent of coffee—strong, dark, with the faintest hint of caramelized nuts and a touch of spice, like something robust enough to wake the dead.
Ivan moved about the kitchen with practiced ease, serving up three plates of food. Linnea came bounding down the stairs, her striped turtleneck tucked neatly into a pair of overalls, her hair still slightly tousled from sleep. She sprang herself into her father's embrace, giggling as he kissed her sweetly on the top of her head before reaching for his steaming cup of coffee.
"Pappa, Skyggeengel might be hungry," she said sweetly between bites of her food, swinging her legs beneath the table.
Ivan, cup paused just before his lips, blinked in confusion, "Who?"
Linnea pressed a tiny finger to her lips in a conspiratorial hush before pointing toward the couch, where Loki still lay. His breathing was even, his face smoothed over with a newfound peacefulness, but the way his fingers twitched against the blanket suggested he was beginning to stir.
Then—a low, unmistakable grumble of hunger rumbled from his stomach, audible even from the kitchen.
Linnea giggled behind her hand, "See?" she whispered.
Ivan suppressed a smile as he watched his daughter's antics with the playful nickname she had bestowed upon the young man. Her voice, light and teasing, filled the room with a warmth that contrasted the blizzard outside.
With a chuckle, he stood up, reaching for a plate of food he had prepared earlier, and carried it over to the coffee table where Loki lay.
Loki blinked groggily, his eyelashes fluttering as he rubbed at his eyes, still caught between the remnants of slumber. The smell of the meal hit him, and a faint change came over him as his senses fully awakened. His gaze fell on the plate before him, his mouth watering despite the drowsiness that clung to him like a thick fog.
Ivan, steady and unhurried, lowered the plate gently in front of the young man, and as he did, he looked down at him with a soft but knowing smile.
"Good morning, son," Ivan said warmly, his voice a low rumble of kindness. His eyes lingered for a moment on the familiar sight of the black, curly-haired young man, his form fragile yet resilient in the wake of the ordeal he had survived. "Seems like you finally got some rest. You were out for quite some time."
Loki swallowed, blinking slowly as he lifted his gaze toward Ivan. His throat felt tight, as though the very act of swallowing required more energy than he had at the moment. Still, he managed a slight nod, "Yes, I suppose I must have…considering I seem to have missed half an era," though it barely reached his eyes. His opposite arm had since been removed from the sling. However, the motion seemed to cost him more than it should have, leaving a feeling a soreness in his torso, but he didn't let it stop him. Methodically, he reached for the fork with graceful movements.
Ivan noted it, how Loki took the fork with a poised almost regal manner, as though even in his weakest state, there was something inherently dignified about him.
Loki ate almost with reverence for the food that lay before him, but the hunger quickly overtook him and soon he ate every last scrap on the plate, as if he could not bring himself to stop.
I knew he was hungry, Ivan thought to himself, a realization slipping through him. He watched with admiration as the young man devoured the meal, feeling as though the younger man moved like someone who had been taught not to appear desperate, no matter the circumstance.
A soft shuffle entered the room then, and Ivan looked up as Maja stepped into the kitchen. Maja's long auburn curls cascading down her back like a rich, fiery waterfall. The sunlight from the kitchen caught her hair, setting it aglow with strands of gold and copper. She wore a simple yet elegant outfit—a deep green cardigan, that hung loosely around her shoulders. Underneath, she wore a crisp, white blouse, its collar peeking out just above the cardigan's neckline, lending her a touch of timeless grace.
Her presence was like a warm breeze in the cool morning air. She kissed their daughter on the cheek and pinched her dimple sweetly before turning her attention to her husband and Loki.
She crossed the room, "You finally got him to eat, I see," she whispered enthusiastically to Ivan. Ivan offered a silent nod in response, eyebrows raised in amusement as Maja's eyes returned to Loki, still seated on the couch as Maja leaned into Ivan's arm.
"Is he ready to speak yet?" she asked.
Ivan hesitated for a moment, watching Loki, who had now finished his meal and sat back slightly as though he still seemed to have something to digest.
"I think so," Ivan said slowly, as if to himself, unsure. "Linnea has given him a nickname…it appears the boy's memories still evade him."
Just then, the soft shuffle entered the room. Loki, now holding his empty plate in one hand, stood just inside the threshold, allowing Maja and Ivan to take a moment to observe him fully for the first time. The young man was a figure of ethereal grace with slender yet muscular frame. His black, curly hair was wild yet fell in a deliberate fashion that framed his handsome face.
Moreover, the striking evergreen of his eyes stood out, piercing yet delicate behind long black lashes accentuating their depth. He seemed out of place, yet undeniably graceful, as if bearing some silent heaviness that none of them could fully understand.
Loki lowered his head slightly in a gesture of thanks, almost princely to the Midgardian family, refined in its simplicity. His voice was soft, but with an unmistakable trace of his origins, a faint elegance in his tone as he murmured,
"I am most grateful for your hospitality," he said. The way his eyes flickered up to meet theirs held a fleeting trace of nobility, the faintest reminder of who he was and where he had come from.
Turning to Linnea, Loki bent low on one knee as he picked up Reynard, cradling it in his hand. Kneeling before the child, Loki offered the toy back to her his voice soft yet rich with a strange regal quality. "Your protector served me well, little one," he murmured, his words lingering in the air. "Thank you for sharing your friend with me. It brought me peace in a night that felt endless."
His gaze held hers for a moment, and Linnea's face broke into a bright smile, dimples returning. She took Reynard into her arms, clutching the stuffed fox with such affection that it seemed to embody the joy she now radiated. Her eyes sparkled with the silent excitement of a bond beginning to form between them.
Loki stood then, his eyes flicking briefly to Ivan and Maja, who had been silently observing the exchange. Their faces reflected surprise, not just at the kindness he showed to their daughter, but at the way he had spoken so naturally—so carefully—with her.
Maja took a step forward, her eyes softening as she gazed at Loki. "You've made her day," she said quietly, her voice warm. She paused before asking, "Well family, what would you like to do today?" Her eyes danced back to a calendar on the refrigerator, noting that it was Saturday.
Loki's gaze flickered toward the window, where the blizzard continued to rage outside, the wind howling like a distant creature in pain. Saturday? he pondered, having realized he didn't have a concept of the strange Midgardian terminology. He winced slightly as a sharp ache coiled at the base of his skull, creeping forward. He discretely drew his fingers to his temple, attempting to absently massage the pounding absently, though his discomfort did not subside.
…his hands light on the reins of a black stallion, earthy scent of morning dew and distant sea spray, and light pulse thrumming with the stolen freedom of the moment.
...and then, a smirk, a silent challenge from a blonde-headed figure, and the world blurred around them as hooves struck the earth with a thunderous rhythm...
Before anyone could respond, Linnea's voice burst through the silence like a ray of sunshine breaking through clouds. "Skyggeengel!" she cried excitedly; her cheeks flushed from the remnants of her breakfast. Without hesitation, she shoveled the last of her food into her mouth, her fingers a blur of motion as she turned to Loki with wide, desperate eyes. "We should read together" Loki blinked, startled at the child's sudden eagerness.
Her eyes were wide and pleading, and Loki found that the innocence and pure hope in her expression caught him off guard. He was unsure as to how to respond.
Ivan was clearly surprised at how quickly his daughter had warmed to the midnight-haired stranger with such care, it was almost as though a part of him had softened, it felt like he was seeing something beyond the pain and silence the young man had displayed earlier in the week. Ivan's lips twitched into a small smile, and he ruffled Linnea's hair fondly, a soft laugh escaping him.
"I think that would be a wonderful idea," he said, his voice filled with affection for both his daughter and their guest. He nodded at Maja, who smiled in agreement. Loki, still processing the request, finally nodded, "Very well," he said with a pleasant tone before the little girl grabbed his slender hand in hers and ushered him to a small study.
Loki followed Linnea as she tugged him eagerly by the hand, her small fingers surprisingly passionate for someone her size. The space she led him to was a cozy, intimate room—a Scandinavian study, warmly lit by a single pendant light hanging from the ceiling causing its soft glow gently illuminating the wooden shelves that lined the walls.
An olfactory of pine and aged paper occupied the room, intermingling with the scent of books blending into the natural wood of the furniture. Bookshelves, dark and polished, spread from floor to ceiling, each shelf filled with an assortment of volumes, some with gold lettering on their spines, others with faded cloth covers. The books seemed to vibrate with stories, their pages waiting to be turned, their tales to be shared.
A large, well-worn armchair sat by the window; a faded blanket was draped over its back. The window itself was framed with simple, flowing curtains, their light fabric billowing gently in the wind as snowflakes continued to drift lazily outside.
Loki stared at the armchair and a phantasm glimmered across his vision.
…a gravitas with a velvety cadence drifted to him and spoke in rhythmic, ancient tones, but the words remained indecipherable, lost in the oblivion of forgetfulness. Little feet in mossy-green suede slippers, dangled above the floor adjourned with an indistinguishable family crest in silver and bronze. A callused yet steady hand rested on his small back while another held onto an aged tome. The figure behind him was towering, and Loki leaned into it, as cologne with notes of dry elm bark and amaranth washed a blanket of comfort over him even as the room around him began to morph…
In the far corner of the room stood a sturdy, hand-carved wooden desk, papers scattered across it, some neatly stacked, others left in a haphazard but comfortable mess. A brass lamp sat atop it, its dim light casting shadows that played across the walls.
Linnea led Loki to a low, round wooden table in the center of the room, where a small stack of picture books lay. She climbed into the chair and patted the seat beside her, her eyes glowing with anticipation. "Come over here, Skyggeengel," she urged, her voice filled with the innocent joy of a child eager to share something special.
Loki hesitated for a moment, standing by the table as he looked around the room. The atmosphere was different here—calm, as if the rest of the world had faded away. There was a certain weight to the silence, but it was comfortable.
With a small sigh, he sat down beside the young child who handed him one of the books, her tiny hands offering it up like an indulgence for a priest. "This one is my favorite," she said proudly with proclamation. Æsir og Vanir: Ævintýri og Sagn read the title (translation: Tales of the Æsir and Vanir: Adventures and Myths).
The word Æsir tasted familiar on his lips, but Loki didn't dwell on it. Ignoring the thought, he accepted the book from Linnea, his fingers brushing against the well-worn cover. The leather was cool and textured under his touch, and as he carefully opened the pages, his eyes drifted over the illustrations. The colors leapt off the pages in stark contrast to the muted tones of the room—vibrant, pomegranate flush and glacial sapphire, the deep shadowed ivy of forests, and the brilliant, honeyed radiance of the halls.
Linnea leaned in close, her face alight with curiosity, eager to hear the words he would speak as he read. The child's gaze was fixed on him, her eyes sparkling as she waited.
As he flipped through the pages, Linnea leaned in closer, her tiny frame pressed against his, and she pointed eagerly to a page, flipping it open with a swift motion to page 973, where a new chapter began.
It was titled: "Prínsar Ásgeir: Ríki og Tignir" (Translation: Princes of Asgard, Kingdoms and Rulers.)
Loki's breath hitched slightly as he gazed down at the words. He also recognized Asgard. His brows furrowed deeper, an almost imperceptible shiver running through him as his pulse quickened. He couldn't place it—couldn't connect it with anything coherent. But the name felt like something forgotten yet not fully lost.
"Asgard is not just a place... it's a people."
Linnea's eyes remained sparkling with anticipation, unaware of the waves of confusion and recognition crashing inside his mind.
For a moment Loki hesitated, but then he looked at Linnea's hopeful smile. A small part of him that had been locked away seemed to stir, and he found himself clearing his throat. Then alas is voice began low and steadily, carrying a whimsical rhythm that matched the cadence of the words. "Þá var Asgard, heimr allra, staður af ótrúlegum stórkostleika…."
(Translation: Then there was Asgard, the realm of all the warriors a place of unparalleled magnificence...)
The words spilled easily from his lips, the old tongue flowing naturally like a soft melody that wove itself into the air.
"In the heart of the great cosmos, beyond the reach of mere mortals stood the golden city, its towers stretching toward the heavens, their tips glistening in eternal sunlight. The gates of Asgard were carved with the runes of old, standing as a threshold between realms and guarded by the ever-watchful sentry whose sight pierced through time itself.
Within these halls, the warriors of the Einherjar trained, their blades clashing in the courtyard as they prepared for the battles yet to come. The great feasting halls roared with laughter, golden goblets brimming with mead as songs of victory and legend wove through the air like magic itself."
"But among them, there were those who stood apart—rulers of divine blood, bound by fate and the weight of their names. Kings, queens, and princes whose legacies shaped the realms beneath them. It was said that among these royal figures, there were two sons destined to change the course of history itself..."
Loki paused. Something in his chest twisted sharply. The words felt extraordinary, almost familiar in a way he couldn't quite grasp. The descriptions of regal architecture, profound feasts, notable warriors—he could…almost see them. Not just in his mind, but as if he had once stood among them, walked those very halls, felt the chill of steel weaponry in his grasp.
Still, he kept reading.
"One son bore the strength of storms, his power unmatched and his heart alight with the fire of battle. The other was shrouded in mystery, his gifts woven in secrecy, his mind as sharp as the blade he did not wield. Where one ruled through might, the other ruled through wit, their fates forever entwined..."
The words caught in his throat. The text blurred for a moment, like the unlocking of a door he hadn't realized was closed.
Then, he read the name aloud.
Prince Loki.
Loki's eyes widened in shock and his heart leapt in his chest. He knew that name.
Unexpectedly, flashes of a vision hit him like a wave crashing through a dam, prodigious in its intensity:
The sunlight caught off every surface, illuminating the majesty of a palace. He saw a young boy, with long black locks flying behind him running through the corridors. His laughter echoed in the air, light and carefree, as he darted from one hallway to the next, the golden light chasing him like an eager companion.
Then, that boy was older now. No longer a child but not yet of age, standing tall on the training grounds. From his palms a strange surge of energy was produced, a green hue beginning to form in shades at his fingertips. They protruded from his hands like waiflike branches, snaking as though the very air around him bowed to his will.
The golden halls blurred into shadows, replaced by a darkness in the sky above him. It was a prison. A flash of broken crystal—a crack in an eclectic bridge shattered in an explosion of light, the sound of its destruction reverberating in his chest. Then, a scream—haunting, filled with anguish.
Loki blinked briskly attempting to gather himself. His hands trembled slightly as they still held the book. The words rang in his ears as sweat broke out on his brow. Agony, forfeiture, and disappointment drowned him, and as quickly as the revelations had come, they began to fade.
"Prins Loki… sonur Óðins..." (Prince Loki... son of Odin...)
For a moment, Loki could only stare at the page, the words smearing as his mind reeled. His name—his title—etched into written ink as though it had always belonged there. As though he had always belonged there.
Loki swallowed, forcing the tremor from his voice as he continued.
"Prins Loki var fundinn á frostbitnu jörðu Jötunheims..."(Translation: Prince Loki was found on the frostbitten land of Jotunheim...).
The words felt heavier than before, his tongue shaping them as he read on describing a harsh, unforgiving land of endless, jagged ice. Of a battle fought beneath the pale glow of a dying sun. Of a warrior king stepping forward, finding not a foe, but a mere babe— fragile and abandoned, cast out to die in the elements.
"Asgarðs konungur, Óðinn hinn Mikli, tók barnið upp í faðm sinn..."
(Translation: Asgard's king, Odin the Mighty, lifted the child into his arms...)
Loki's breath lingered at the letters swam before his eyes—
The swift parries and calculated strikes, the way his blade moved like an extension of himself, and then—
A hand.
Colossal, incongruous fingers wrapping around his wrist. A touch like searing ice burning through his skin. He had felt it before he had seen it—the way the pain gave way to something else. When his eyes had dropped to his arm expecting to see the flesh burned, only to find azure creeping across it.
No, no, no—
"So I am no more than a stolen relic, locked up here until you might have use of me!"
The words ripped through him echoing across time. The accusation he had hurled at Odin, the bitterness that had spilled from his lips, shaking with rage. He could still feel it—the helpless fury and twisted betrayal.
"Why do you twist my words?"
Loki squeezed his eyes shut and his stomach distorted, causing his breath to come in short as the scene warped again—flashes of a shattered bridge, an endless lie, a fall into the abyss.
Breathe.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't…. He wasn't…
Linnea's voice broke through his disorientation, "Skyggeengel?" she asked, her tone investigative and worrisome.
Loki's breath was shallow as he met the little girl's eyes, the book still held in his trembling hands.
Linnea tilted her head, brows drawing together, "You…you stopped."
Loki inhaled franticly.
Linnea blinked up at him, confusion flickering across her delicate features. "Are you okay, Skyggeengel?" she asked, her sweet voice laced with concern, but cutting through the chaos in his mind. The simplicity of her question, felt like a force too great for him to bear.
Suddenly, he dropped the book to the floor with a loud thud and he stood abruptly, the tremor in his limbs betraying his effort to remain calm. His heart hammered aggressively, pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. His mind was spinning and alarm clawed at his insides.
Before Linnea could ask him again, Loki's legs carried him out the study without a second thought.
Maja had been painting in the family room with the soft crackle of her record player filling the space. The ancient, lilting tones of Heming og Gyygra wound through the room, its verses a haunting yet hypnotic melody as she calmly moved the strikes of her brush across the canvas:
"Inkje er eg ein farandes fant,
og inkje vil eg det heite,
men eg er her inn i bergjet kome
alt ette god råd leite."
(Translation: For certain, I am no vagabond,
and neither such will I be called,
but I have come here to the mountain
searching on good counsel)
The brush in her hand moved with meticulousness, sweeping strokes of deep blue across the canvas. The rhythm of her work matched the cadence of the song, each lyric by Käte Ungdomsdagar painting its own image in her mind.
"Åh, er du i bergjet kome inn
for å være her dagane alle
så ska' eg reise meg upp i land…"
(Translation: "Oh, you have come here to the mountain
to be here for all of your days
then I shall climb out onto land…"
Then—thud, the sound of a book hitting the floor interrupted her thoughts.
Her hand faltered.
A drop of royal blue paint, slipped from the bristles of her brush, falling soundlessly onto the pale fibers of the rug below.
Then came the sound of hurried, uneven footsteps rushing toward the door.
Maja barely had time to turn her head before Loki shoved past the doorway in a blur of motion. His erratic footsteps echoed in the hallway until he reached the door. With a violent motion, he threw it open, and the desolate, afternoon air hit him like a slap to the face.
The gust of bleakness that followed as he wrenched the door open sent a shiver through the room, scattering loose pages from the desk and making the candle flames snuff out.
Then, he was gone.
The door slammed shut behind him, swallowed by the howling blizzard outside.
Maja gasped, her heart jumping as the wind swept through the house in Loki's wake. Without hesitation she ripped off her smock, causing her paintbrush clattering onto the wooden tray beside her forgotten canvas. Her pulse pounded as she called for her husband.
"Ivan!" she called, her voice edged with urgency.
Heavy footsteps pounded against the stairs and Ivan appeared moments later, wiping dust from his hands. He had been upstairs repairing a loose wooden shutter that had been rattling against the frame of the windowpane.
A small toolbox lay open beside him, screws and a screwdriver scattered atop a folded cloth to keep them from rolling away.
At his side, Fen padded in, ears perked and tail stiff, sensing the tension in the room.
"What happened?" Ivan asked, his brows knitting together as he took in the scattered paint supplies and Maja's stricken expression.
Before she could respond, "Where did he go!?" Linnea's voice was high and filled with worry as she skidded to a stop in the family room, grappling the open book in her hand.
Maja barely heard her, her mind racing. "He…he just ran out…into the storm!"
Ivan's face darkened and he turned toward the coat rack without hesitation, yanking on his heavy winter coat. Fen let out a low whine, trudging on his paws as if ready to follow.
"I'll find him," Ivan said, his voice brooking no argument. He pulled his hat over his ears and grabbed his gloves before shoving open the door, disappearing into the swirling white beyond.
The blizzard was a living, unyielding thing. Snow whipped across Loki's face, biting into his skin as the wind shrieked through the trees. But it was nothing compared to the panic, disorientation, desperate need to run.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he plunged forward, his feet sinking into the deep snow. The icy air cut through him, a cruel contrast to the fire burning in his chest. He stumbled blindly; his mind consumed by the fragmented images flashing through his thoughts.
The world blurred into a haze of white and gray as he pushed forward, heedless of the wind screaming in his ears or the way his body cried out in protest.
He didn't know how long he ran—until at last, he reached the frozen lake. A vast, desolate expanse of ice before him; surface shimmering with an eerie glow of the sun beneath the swirling snow. Loki stood motionless before it with his chest heaving.
The ice groaned beneath him with shuddering sound and then a tremor ran through him, causing his legs to give way. Sinking to his knees with bare hands pressing into the ice, Loki bowed his head submissively, and for the first time since the memories seized him, a sob tore free from his throat.
Despite this, the winds raged on as if indifferent to his grief.
For a moment, he was too stunned to move, but as quickly as the shock came, it crumbled and another fragmented sob tore from him as he clutched his arms to his chest, curling inward as if he could hold himself together.
Ivan's boots crunched against the snow, the sound faint as he moved closer with the biting wind shrieking through the trees. Fen eyes never left the young man who knelt on the ice several yards away, it was as if he could sense the gravity of what lay ahead.
Ivan's mind raced, trying to process what had transpired in the house. Yet it was the broken sobs of the young man before him that made Ivan's chest tighten with desolation.
His voice broke the stillness of the blizzard uncertainly as he approached the dark-haired young man before him. "I do not know what happened in there," Ivan began, trailing off as he contemplated the right way to reach the disheveled figure before him.
He took a step closer, but his words were steady now, "You're a young man who carries far too much within him. You're burdened by anxiety and a sorrow so deep it sinks into your bones." Ivan's eyes tempered as he crouched down, his hands steadying on his knees. "Fear and despair: these are things that can make you feel like you're drowning, no matter how solid the ground beneath you seems…but it doesn't have to be this way."
Loki didn't hear him—his chest shaking violently with every breath, the emotions spilling out in torrents down his pale cheeks.
Ivan stood up slowly, though the wind tugged at his clothes, his resolve was strong. He continued on, "Running out into a storm like this, in your state... it's reckless. It's dangerous." Ivan pulled off his coat and gently draped it over Loki's shoulders, the warmth of it a sturdy contentment amidst the rancorous wilderness.
Loki didn't move at first, but when Ivan's hand reached to place his coat on him, the contact seemed to break through the haze in Loki's mind.
Ivan knelt beside him once more after the coat was placed comfortably, "I knew a man like you before," he said in a low voice tinged with an old, familiar pain. "He held his emotions so tightly bottled up inside him, it killed him. He had so much inner unrest and emotional chaos….it was as if the very weight of it all would crush him if he didn't let it out." Ivan's voice faltered in a brief hesitation before he continued. "He often shied away from help. Couldn't bring himself to trust anyone, yet alone bring himself to let them see how deeply he was hurting..."
Loki's breath stopped, for a moment his vulnerability surfaced. His tears blurred his vision, but he looked up at the older man with a mix of disbelief and shame.
"I do not deserve this..." Loki's voice cracked; the words lost beneath the sound of the wind. His chest heaved as another wave of grief shook him, his face twisted in confusion and pain.
Ivan's hand laid gently on his shoulder, a steadying force that seemed to ground him. "You do," Ivan murmured, "far more than you know."
"Come on, son," Ivan then urged softly while helping Loki to his feet. Loki felt his voice caught in his throat at the word son and only shook his head slightly, feeling as though he had no energy left to argue nor strength to resist. However, as Ivan's grip tightened, pulling him slowly toward the safety of the house, he felt himself be enticed away from the blizzard and the chaos inside himself.
*Asgard*
Embers from the hurst cast long shadows against the stone walls of Odin's private study. The room was quiet, save for the occasional pop of burning wood and the measured clink of metal against glass as Odin lifted his cup of mead to his lips. He drank slowly, allowing the warmth to spread through him, dulling the ache that had settled in his chest since the moment Loki let go.
His youngest son was gone…
His single eye burned as he stared into the flames, but what he saw was not the flicker of the firelight; it was the past…
An undernourished, caerulean infant lay in his hands, juddering and whimpering as his eyes looked up at him. Odin had wrapped the baby in his cloak, shielding him from the howling winds as he carried him away. He had convinced himself this was an act of mercy.
Then, the heavy doors of the study opened, then closed with a crash.
Odin did not turn to know who entered: he felt Thor's presence like a typhoon brewing behind him.
"I will have word with you, Father," came Thor's voice. It was not a request.
Odin exhaled wearily and took another sip of mead. His eye remained fixated on the fire.
"I assume your mother has told you, then?" He said in a hoarse voice. "The truth of your brother's parentage."
Thor stepped forward tensely. He had entered with the authority of a crown prince, but his posture betrayed him—his frame, though powerful, sagged beneath an unseen burden. His eyes, were red-rimmed and exhausted, whispering of sleepless nights and grief so raw it cut through the arrogance he had once carried like Mjolnir.
"All this time…?" Thor's voice cracked and he swallowed down his tears.
Odin finally turned to look at his son. The fire behind Thor cast flickering light across his face, illuminating the sorrow that had settled there.
"I did what I thought was right," Odin murmured, "I thought I was protecting him…"
"What you thought was right?" Thor cried incredulously, his tone beginning to rise. He paced before the fire, his boots scraping against the stone floor. "Why did you not tell him? Why did you not tell me?"
A sickly, sable-haired toddler clung desperately to Frigga. The child's thin body was wracked with violent shivers and his skin was slick with sweat; breath coming in labored gasps as his fevered eyes darted around with an unsettling, glassy fear. His illness was an enigma that even Eir could not name, thought it was seizing him with no mercy.
Odin stood at the doorway of the boy's bedroom, his face carved in stone, though his eye betrayed him watching his son cry in agony. From the shadows, he heard the child's soft, painful whimpers. Frigga tried singing to him to console the 2 year old as her steady hands stroked back the wild, damp curls of black hair that clung to child's forehead.
Odin had suggested moving the boy to the dungeons, where the cool air might help him fight the fever. "It is the only way," he insisted.
Frigga's heart broke and she shook her head with wide, horrified eyes. "It is cruel!" she whispered, the words trembling in the air, a sharp contrast to Odin's practicality.
However, it had been decided and ill toddler was not unfortunately incapable of understanding his father's intentions. So when the Einherjar arrived to take him, the child's slender arms flailed, reaching back toward Odin with a desperate shriek of "Papppppppaaaaa!"
"I did what I thought was right," Odin had stated after Frigga had cried.
Odin closed his eye, inhaling slowly. "He was a child, Thor….what would you have had me say? That he was the son of our greatest enemy? That he was never meant to…" He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
Thor's fists clenched at his sides. "He spent his entire life believing a LIE," he yelled. "And you let him on…giving him the impression he was… lesser?!"
Odin did not respond. What could he say?
Thor exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his unkempt hair. "Do you know what he told me when we fought in the observatory?" His voice wavered, but there was an unmistakable anger beneath it. "He told me he never wanted the throne." Thor turned, eyes blazing with grief. "All he ever wanted was to be my equal!"
The words struck Odin.
All he ever wanted was to be Thor's equal.
He had suspected it some aspects of this. The way Loki had always fought harder, studied longer, crafted his words and magic with a precision so meticulous it bordered on obsession…and yet, he had let him believe the throne was his ambition.
Perhaps because it was easier than acknowledging the truth.
Odin lowered his gaze, staring at the golden liquid in his cup as if the answer lay somewhere at the bottom.
"I never wanted to lose him…." Odin admitted.
Thor let out a bitter, humorless laugh, "and yet, you did."
The room felt bone-chilling, despite the fire. Odin said nothing as Thor stood there, shoulders heaving. There were no words that could undo what had been done.
A son lost.
A brother mourning.
A mother stricken.
And a king who, for all his wisdom, had never truly understood the boy he had raised from the ruin.